


The Funeral

by enigmaticdr



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BedeliaTorture, F/M, Hannibal is Hannibal, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7715617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticdr/pseuds/enigmaticdr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bedelia knows that Hannibal, like all serial killers, loves to gloat in the spoils of his crimes."</p><p> </p><p>In which Hannibal forces Bedelia to attend Professor Sogliato's funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> I am kind of playing around with canon here, I know, because I'm fairly sure that Hannibal ate Mr. Sogliato after killing him? I think? However, for the purpose of this story, Hannibal disposed of this particular dinner guest differently.  
> As always, my Italian is at the mercy of google translate so I apologize in advance.

 

Bedelia knows that Hannibal loves to gloat in the spoils of his crimes.

The Thursday after his self-declared _impulsive_ tryst with Sogliato, Hannibal nonchalantly leaves the newspaper open to page seven on the mahogany coffee table in the den. After glancing at the featured story (“distinguished professor decapitated by boat propeller after suicidal fall from bridge – divers still searching for missing head”) Bedelia calmly folds the paper in two and throws it into the garbage can under the sink in the kitchen.

“I was not finished with this,” Hannibal remarks absently that evening, starch apron around his waist and wine glass half-full on the counter, discovering the paper when he deposits lemon peels into the trash.

“Yes, you were,” Bedelia replies lowly, meeting his gaze and holding it when he turns, his eyebrow raised in surprise at her boldness. “You are _finished_ with this, Hannibal.”

He stares at her, appraising her, and then smiles, amused, enjoying her pain. “ _Bella_ ,” he says, handing her the ornate wooden box containing the murderous oyster picks, “will you be so kind as to dress the table for dinner?”

 

* * *

 

On Saturday, she comes home to a black raw silk dress spread aesthetically across their white duvet.  She is, by now, quite used to Hannibal buying her clothing. She is used to his obsession with dressing her, with making her up in his image. However, this dress’s conservative three-quarter sleeves and demure calf-length hem are an unusual surprise. Still, it is beautiful in its tailored simplicity.

She picks the dress up by its hanger and places it in her closet.

When he comes home from the library an hour later, she is reading on the bed, a cool glass of rosé resting on the bedside table.

He deposits his books on the dresser, and Bedelia, to her dismay, watches as Hannibal unashamedly places another neatly folded newspaper on top of his journals.

He unbuttons his dress shirt and begins changing into his evening clothes.

“Does the dress fit you?” he asks, when he opens the closet to hang his suit.

“I don’t know,” she answers, not looking up from her book. She will not give him the satisfaction of caring about the newspaper – which he so obviously brought home to bait her, to test her patience.

“What do you mean?” he asks, moving his suit to the side so the dress is front and centre.

“I have yet to try it on,” she replies casually.

“I should like for you to do so,” he retorts, in the same infuriatingly polite tone. He takes the hanger and removes the dress from the closet, and comes around to her side of the bed, holding the dress carefully over one arm.

Bedelia is also used to this particular brand of torture:  he shrouds his demands in courtesy to give her the illusion of freedom – only she, prisoner that she is, can hear the muted _or else_ at the end of his sentences.

 “Of course,” she acquiesces, mind and mouth like the yin and yang of a circle.

“There is an event tomorrow morning that I would like to attend.”

She hums half-heartedly and takes the dress, retreating to the ensuite to change.

The dress really is beautiful. It is understated, but once studied it reveals itself as a true masterpiece in cut and style. It hugs her chest and waist invitingly before flaring gently to caress her hips and thighs. It is something she would have worn before, something that, unlike so many of the items he has chosen for her recently, she would have chosen for herself.

“Bellissima,” he praises, proud of himself, as his eyes rake her head to toe when she comes back into the bedroom to show him. He is sitting on the loveseat, newspaper open in his lap. “You are truly a work of art.”

 

* * *

 

She spends most of dinner disassociating from her plate of sliced tomato, prosciutto, and basil drizzled with truffle oil, no longer able to completely stand what dinner time in the Fell household entails. It is better to let her mind wander, to think of something else, of _anything_ else.

As Hannibal degusts contentedly across from her, she focuses on trying to figure out what kind of museum event would be held on a Sunday morning.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes with a start, the clock on her bedside table reads 2:46 am. The flat is silent, save for the steady rhythm of his breathing beside her, the gentle rustle of his skin against her nightgown.

And then it hits her. It isn’t a museum event he is planning to attend.

She pushes off the covers and picks up the newspaper, urgently flipping to page 7, where the Sogliato story is printed. Where is it…where is it…

There. At the bottom of the page, in small, italicized writing. “ _A celebration of life will be held on Sunday at 11 am – all are welcome to attend_ ”. Bedelia doesn’t even need to look at the address to know that this is exactly what Hannibal had in mind for them tomorrow.

Mind reeling, she stumbles out of bed and the newspaper slips to the floor. She slams the bathroom door shut behind her.

Wordlessly, he holds her hair back when, a few minutes later, the sound of her retching rouses him.

 

* * *

 

“I know what you’re doing,” she says, stoically, from her spot at the kitchen island when he finally greets her with his presence in the early morning. She’s already dressed in the black funeral dress, hair curled, make-up perfect.

“Of course you do,” he answers simply, coming to stand beside her. He places a soft kiss on her cheek. His hand curls around her shoulder and his fingers play gently with the ends of her hair. Another kiss on her temple. “You look lovely.”

“Hannibal, please don’t ask me to -,”

“I’m not asking,” he says. There is a pause, his hand curled on the back of her neck, in which he dares her to argue with him. Wisely, she doesn’t. “Now, then, what would you like for breakfast?”

“If you keep playing these games,” she warns, hating the quiver in her voice as she turns around to face him, “You are going to be caught.”

He holds her gaze for several long moments, noting the challenge. “It’s a shame you feel that way,” he answers, leaning down once more and kissing her slowly on the mouth.

She retreats to the den just to be away from him because today her skin cannot tolerate the proximity.

 

* * *

 

The church is overflowing with visitors.

“Doctor Fell, Signora Fell,” a colleague from the museum greets them solemnly at the door where people are lined up to pay their respects to the family before the service.

“Doctor Dinapoli,” Hannibal answers, nodding in greeting.

“Such a shame,” the man answers, shaking his head sadly. “He was such a promising individual. I had no idea he was….” The man looks down, “…feeling this way. No idea.”

“Nor did anyone,” Hannibal agrees. “I only wish I could have helped him.”

Beside him, Bedelia stiffens, throat tightening until she swallows harshly. Her hands are shaking, and she hides them in the folds of her dress. Hannibal’s arm curls around her waist, fingers digging warningly into her hip.  

 _Pull yourself together_ , his actions say.

“Very sad,” she adds, her voice barely a whisper but she prides herself on keeping it steady.

“I fear my wife has taken the news rather hard,” Hannibal explains, pulling her closer into his side. “Professor Sogliato was our guest for dinner the night before he died,” he clarifies, as if that will justify her unnaturally grievous state.  “We were becoming quite good friends.”

The man nods sadly, and reaches out to give her hand an encouraging squeeze. “Nothing you could have done, Signora. Do not upset yourself over something that was not your fault.”

At the mention of fault, her breakfast somersaults in her stomach, them clenches like a fist into a hard ball of guilt that extends all the way to her throat.

She nods and forces a grateful smile.

 

* * *

 

Unbeknownst to her (and most probably well-known to Hannibal), Sogliato was member of a large Italian family. Aunts, uncles, and cousins are all in a side chamber accepting their condolences for the loss of their loved one. And, just beyond that, in a sitting room filled with flowers, his wife and children sit on comfortable chairs shaking the hands of those who walk by.

Hannibal leads her forward by the elbow.

Sogliato’s wife is like a ghost, her gaze vacant, eyes red, hands clenched around a wrinkled handkerchief.

“Signora Sogliato,” Hannibal murmurs, reaching down to shake her hand gently, “le mie più sincere condoglianze.”

“Grazie,” the woman whispers, not even looking up to meet his gaze, her eyes merely staring straight into the carpet. The child beside her watches his mother worridly, his eyes filling with tears of sadness at his mother’s distress.

“Stai bene? Mamma?” the child whispers, tugging on her sleeve, but the woman, so far lost in her own grief, does not respond. Twin tears roll down the child’s round face.

_Technically, you killed him._

The words echo over and over in her mind.

_Technically, you killed him._

_You killed him._

Hannibal is murmuring something to the woman, in Italian, and suddenly the woman reaches out and grasps his hand, and brings it to her lips where she gives it a soft kiss. “Grazie, grazie,” she says, wiping her tears with the fresh handkerchief Hannibal has offered her. He is just standing there, just _watching_ , and she has never wanted to kill him more.

“Come,” she whispers hoarsely, threading her fingers through his and pulling him away, into the body of the church. Amid the masses of people squeezed into the pews, she manages to find a spot for two, on the far left side of the room.

He allows her to push him down onto the bench, and then pulls her down with him, clasping her hand in his lap. She is tembling. She knows he can feel the anger coursing through her entire body.

 _Don’t cry_ , she berates herself. _Don’t cry.Don’t give that to him._ She bites her lip, hard.

“I mean them no harm, here,” he whispers into her ear. As if it is supposed to be a comfort to her that he does not intend to physcially hurt them. She removes her hand from his grasp and folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself. One breath in, one breath out. One in, one out.

And then a hush falls over the crowd as the congregation stands and the procession begins.

 

* * *

 

She had foolishly hoped the pounding of the water from the shower would hide her crying, but when Hannibal opens the glass door and sits down beside her on the wet floor of the large stall, she knows it was to no avail.

She bare shoulders shake as she tries to preserve as much of her dignity as she can, stifling the sounds.

“Are you crying because you are sad, or are you crying because you feel guilty?” he asks, as punishingly direct as always.

“Leave me alone,” she replies coldly, arms wrapped around her knees and face turned toward the wall.

He is silent, gently brushing her hair back over her shoulders and down her bare back when the water displaces it. Of course, he does not leave her alone.

Finally, he reaches out and turns off the taps, standing and bringing her a white towel from the rack beside the sink.

“It will not do to wallow in self-pity, Bedelia,” he tells her, placing the towel around her shoulders. “It only makes you weaker.”

Unspoken: _And if you are weak, you are vulnerable._

She grasps the corners of the towel, drawing the warm softness around her trembling shoulders.

“Come, now, get dressed,” he encourages, with an infuriatingly brutal lack of sympathy. He offers her his hand, wedding band glinting in the overhead lights of the bathroom. “We have company for dinner tonight.”

She stands and wipes her eyes on the back of her hand, sidestepping his outstretched arm as she walks to the bedroom and locks the door behind her.

She knows that Hannibal loves to gloat in the spoils of his crimes.

But, she promises herself, this is the last time she will ever let him.

She prepares for her next test.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
